


Swarm of the Dead

by BarPurple



Series: Halloween House of Horror 2018 [10]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Brief suicidal thoughts, F/M, Horror, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swearing, Zombies, eventual Rumbelle, mentions of off page character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16353512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: Neal Cassidy was the last person to escape Storybrooke before the government firebombed it. His home and family were gone, or so he thought.





	1. Chapter 1

Neal sighed as he watched the little blue car pull up outside his house. Belle French was persistent, he’d give her that. He wasn’t sure why he kept talking to her, but he found himself strolling towards the front door ready to let her in. There were no paparazzi lurking outside, hadn’t been for weeks, he was no longer big news, but he still opened the door in such a way that he remained out of sight of the road.

Belle barrelled inside like an angry whirlwind.

“Morning Belle, why don’t you come in…”

The sarcastic smile faded from Neal’s lips as she turned to face him. There were dried tears on Belle’s face and she was vibrating with rage.

“The government lied to us Neal. There are people alive in Storybrooke.”

The rush of conflicting emotions made him go ridged. Anger, relief, disbelief, hope and fear all struggled for dominance. Practicality won out.

“Okay, show me what you’ve found.”

In less than ten minutes Belle had covered his little dining table in masses of papers. There were a million questions buzzing in Neal’s brain, but the first one that fell out of his mouth was; “How did you get all this stuff?”

She gave him a genuine smile; “I called in a few favours.”

“And how does a university librarian know the sort of people that can do these kinds of favours?” He tapped the red Top Secret stamp on the front of one of the files to make his point that this was out of the ordinary.

Belle shrugged; “A lot of classified work happens at Berkley.”

Neal whistled through his teeth. Belle’s connections, whoever they were, had managed to procure the unedited Google Earth images of Storybrooke, as well as documents detailing the swarm density, effects of their bites and feeding habits. The government was studying the bugs. It made his blood boil; the politicians had made a big hoopla about how they had firebombed Storybrooke to eradicate the threat. It was about then that the press lost interest in him, although that could have something to do with him slugging a news anchor in his perfect teeth.

He’d spent months believing that his home was gone, he’d even tried to convince Belle of that ‘fact’. The picture he was looking at showed movement, it could be people and not the Others. Had to be in some cases because the Others couldn’t drive and at least a few cars were moving about. He’d been lied too, and he’d believed that damn lie. Storybrooke was still there, and there might still be people alive in that hellhole; people he grew up with, his friends, maybe even his family.

Now he was getting his hopes up too much. Belle was bright-eyed with excitement. She looked ready to head to Storybrooke right now. In their odd friendship he was the down to Earth sensible one, who kept Belle’s feet on the ground. He felt like a bastard, but he had to do that now.

“Belle, there’s no guarantee that your dad is still alive.”

She inhaled sharply, and Neal reached across the table to squeeze her hand. He didn’t want to upset her, but they had to be sensible about this. She eased her hand out of his and pulled a final file from her bag.

“Dad might be dead, but I think yours is still alive.”

He frowned at the photo she handed him. His confusion lasted for a moment before he burst out laughing. On Main Street, Storybrooke someone had written a message in huge bright orange letters.

“Still Alive Yer Fuckin’ Cunts!”

Still laughing he said; “Pops, you’d wash my mouth out with soap if I said that.”

Belle leaned forward; “You think it’s him? I figured it might be because, well I remember that your dad can cuss up a storm and that reads like a Scottish Tweet. That photo is only three days old.”

If anyone was stubborn enough to survive an apocalypse for eight months and still be angry enough to write a foul-mouthed message on the street, it was going to be Rum Gold.

Neal read the message again; “Oh this looks like Pops.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair and spared a thought to wonder when it had got this long. “Looks like we’re going back to Storybrooke.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - suicidal thoughts, brief.  
> WARNING - mentions of off page character deaths

This was a fucking nightmare, no question. Gold’s only solace was that Neal had made it out. His son had led the last group of kids over the border, braving the fire and burning bugs as the last few defenders tried to hold off the zombies and the swarm. It had been a horrible experience, but he'd caught a glimpse of Neal on the far side safe and sound before the swarm closed again. The stink of burning bug, and gasoline had clung to him for days, but it was the screams of those that didn’t make it through that haunted his nightmares. The sight of Granny Lucas wielding a flamethrower botched together out of her welding gear had caused him to wake up in a cold sweat a few times as well. The manic glint in her eyes as flaming bugs dropped around had scared him into swearing to himself never to insult her lasagne ever again. His stomach growled at the thought of a plateful of Granny’s special. He’d willing devour every lick of sauce from the plate right about now.

Gold cringed as the caddy rolled over the message he'd painted on the road the week before. He prided himself on not being a Scottish stereotype, but occasionally his temper expressed itself in the colloquial of his birthland. To be honest it was a surprise it had taken eight months for him to lose his rag.

This daily drive was one of the last hopes that someone out there would see they were still alive and needed help. His carefully planned route spelled SOS if anyone cared to pay attention. Gold was trying to keep his suspicions to himself, but the fact that the town still had water and limited electricity was confirmation for him the bastards in power knew they were here and didn't give a fuck. He had no idea what they could be getting out of their suffering, but he was sure there was money involved somewhere, there always was. His caddy was one of the few cars left intact. The sense of using a gas guzzler like the caddy had been hotly debated among the survivors, but it was built like a tank and could survive a few bugs and the zombies didn’t stand a chance.

The graffiti had been his way of coping with the futility of everything. It was childish and had almost gotten him swarmed. Thank fuck the bugs couldn't bite through leather. He snorted, and his legs squeaked as he shifted against the seat. He never thought he'd see the day he was driving his caddy in bikers’ leathers. Gold wasn’t sure why his tailor, Jefferson had made the set of near skin-tight brown leathers to his exact measurements, and he was never going to get the chance to ask him. Jefferson had fallen in the first wave of attacks. He’d saved his daughter Grace at the cost of his own life. Bile still rose in Gold’s throat when he saw the once eccentric and vibrant man shambling around the streets.

The rest of the motley crew of survivors thought his cold forbidding personality meant he was unaffected by running down former residents of town. In truth it made him sick to his stomach, but he refused to show weakness. The only way he hadn’t turned to dust when the swarm had closed and separated him from his son was to hide his feelings behind his well-practised mask of indifference. In truth he’d envied David Nolan, who had returned from a supply run with tears streaming down his face as he mourned beheading Mother Superior. The sobbing man had been comforted by the others, something which Gold found himself jealous of; nobody offered him so much as a pat on the shoulder when he dispatched a zombie.

He reached the end of his route and turned the car around ready for the return trip. The persistent buzz of the swarm was louder here. The fucking wasp spider things had built massive heaps of debris and vegetation around the perimeter of the town. To Gold they looked like anthills, which only added to his confusion about what to call the bloody things. Whatever the hell they were, their apparent dormant state had lured many into thinking they could flee the town during the day light hours during the first days of the chaos. It had almost worked, but ultimately the swarm had emerged and attacked everyone. It was better not to look to closely at the heaps now, least you saw a bone or the skull of one of those poor bastards.

Not everyone had been turned into bug food. The unfortunate zombies acted as guards for the heaps during the day, anyone they caught was either dragged to the heaps presumably for food or became one of the walking dead. As morbid as the topic was Gold had given this some thought and reached the conclusion that he’d rather be bug food. It looked like a quicker death, and at least he wouldn’t inconvenience anyone by causing a situation where they had to behead him.

Zombies or demon bugs. That was the rules of apocalypse. Why the fuck did Storybrooke get both!

The same frustrated rage that had led him to spray that message on the street choked him. For a crazy moment he wanted to drive the caddy right at the nearest damn heap. He was carrying enough flammable material to cause a fireball, he’d die for sure, but he’d take some of the bastard bugs with him.

As if they had read his mind a group of zombies appeared from the fields and woods. The sight of them determinedly lurching towards him quelled his suicidal impulse. He dropped the caddy into drive and took the direct route back to the cannery.


	3. Chapter 3

Belle growled in frustration and pulled the first aid kit out of the rucksack again. She was probably packing far too much, but she had no idea what they would need once they got into town. She tipped everything out and started again. Normally she was great at packing, but she’d never been this nervous about a trip before. Right now, she was scared and anxious, and re-packing their supplies provided a distraction of sorts.

As desperate as Belle was to head directly for Storybrooke, she saw the sense in Neal’s desire to make a solid plan first. The images Nick had acquired for her showed that the town was surrounded by a large military presence, they would be no help to their fathers if they were caught and arrested. Nick had warned her that his pull with the shadier side of the government wouldn’t run to springing her from jail.

She chuckled to herself as she refolded some clothes. Nick had sounded quite annoyed that his power had limits. Belle had assured him that he’d already done plenty for her. He’d dismissed her with a wave, but there was something in his eyes that showed he’d understood just how important these files were to her. Nick had given her back her hope and that was a precious gift. She still wasn’t sure why the cranky scientist had helped her, kindness wasn’t a concept associated with him if the horror stories from the students and staff were anything to judge by. Personally, she was leaning towards the fact the theft appealed to his anti-authority streak; her friendship with Mandy probably hadn’t hurt either. Nick Rush might be a terrifying intellect wrapped up in a collection of bad habits and snark, but any fool could see he loved Mandy with all his heart.

Belle huffed and glanced at the clock again. Neal had gone to meet someone he said could help them get into Storybrooke unseen. He’d refused to let her join him. She’d bristled at that until he’d said who this person was associated with. A shudder ran through her, she had no desire at all to meet anyone who worked for Neal’s step-father.

 

Neal ducked into the pub and headed directly for the bar. He drew a few glances until he ordered the cheapest beer on tap, nobody bothered with him after that. If he was drinking that weak ass brew, then he wasn’t worth rolling for his wallet. He deliberately kept his hands away from the envelope tucked safely in his inside pocket, the wad of banknotes in there would get him stabbed, not just beaten up.

He knew where he’d find Smee, and an apparently casual look in the grimy mirror behind the bar proved him right. The bright red woolly hat was there in the far corner by the jukebox. Neal ambled over and sat down opposite the man.

“You’re looking well.”

Neal took a sip of his pint and shrugged. He wasn’t here for small talk.

“You got what I asked for?”

Smee stared at him for a long uncomfortable moment. Neal knew how to deal with this, he glared back letting a hint of impatience shine in his eyes and posture. Many people folded under the pressure of Smee’s questioning stare and sought to break the tension by babbling out some detail of their plans, or a reason as to why they’d asked him to find whatever they’d requested from him. Neal had never caved, Smee’s stare was good, but it didn’t rate compared to Papa’s, and teenaged Neal had had loads of practise resisting that one.

Finally, Smee dropped his eyes; “Fine. Never could get you to tell me anything you didn’t want to.”

He slid a grubby envelope across the table. Neal caught hold of it and tugged as Smee’s fingers pressed it down into the table.

“I can guess what you’re up to.”

Neal snatched the envelope from under his hand and leaned forward; “I’ve always admired the way you keep your thoughts to yourself, don’t disappoint me now by changing that habit.”

Smee sat back with a chuckle and wagged a finger at Neal; “You don’t often remind me of your dad, but just then you sounded just like him. He always said we’d make a pirate of you.”

Neal fought the urge to punch Smee square in the face. How dare he compare him to that bastard Jones? The fact he’d called his mother’s second husband his father was almost beside the point. The smug smirk on Smee’s face showed he knew his barb had hit the mark. Neal covered his annoyance by tearing open the envelope. He rolled his eyes and tossed it back across the table.

“Don’t play me for a fool, or I’ll prove what else I learned from the Captain.”

Smee went pale at that and fumbled another envelope from his jacket pocket; “Sorry about that, old habits and all.”

The map was right this time. He’d recognize Jones’ scrawl anywhere. He folded the map carefully and pulled Smee’s payment from his jacket. It vanished from the table quickly.

“You not gonna count it?”

Smee smiled; “If I can’t trust an old friend who can I trust? Any message for your folks?”

Neal left his pint on the table and snorted. He’d not spoken to his mother or Jones since he left their house at the age of fifteen.

“Nothing at all. As usual.”

“Your mom misses you, Neal.”

Neal shook his head and walked out. There were parts of his past he never wanted to acknowledge, and his mother and Jones were connected to most of them.


End file.
